


as the sun

by LakeLadoga (Ladoga)



Category: Amenta - Alicorn, Glowfic and Related Works, Silmaril (Glowfic)
Genre: Captivity, Other, Torture, not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 22:35:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12969855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/LakeLadoga
Summary: Sauron-on-Amenta has a, um, consort, of sorts.





	as the sun

**Author's Note:**

> I had this in WIPs and then thefakestseebs prompted "torture a maitimo who isn't named maitimo". 
> 
> For this particular thing I think 'Amenta is a higher-tech world, Aitim is a politician on it, this takes place in an au where Sauron took it over, this Sauron canonically 'enjoys' another character Aitim is a version of' is about sufficient to required background info.

He wakes up, and he is in bed, alone. He gets up from it, washes, dresses. Goes to the door that will take him to an office. Routine, to all appearances, to anyone who might be watching and does not already know. (Someone is, of course, watching. He does not know the details of the suicide prevention that is on him - how much mundane, how much not. The watching, he is certain of. But those observers are, of course, informed).

It is routine. A flowchart, neat and nearly without branches, and the one extra arc that may attach itself to what it wishes. The door is most popular, far enough in that part of him might think himself safe, but other moments are hardly rare. When he turns on the water, when he pulls a shirt over his head and can, briefly, not see. Any instant at all if the master is impatient, more interested in - what follows - than the timing. 

Today there is nothing. The water does not scald him, the doorknob is not electric, the clothing does not begin to burn his skin. The master does not appear. He steps out the door and through the hallway.

Empires take running. Empires arranged by their master for their citizens’ suffering still take running. If it were only that, he might have refused his contribution. But there is space for better and worse, even within constraints. ( _ It could be worse _ . He’d know that, he thinks, before as well, in the politics of the world before. Knows it, perhaps, more intimately now). And so there is a console, and a receiver, and meetings. The reciever also does not electrocute him. No one he meets with changes suddenly, in voice, in shape, appears closer without seeming to cross the space between. The flowchart ticks along. He works.

 

     ----

 

He wakes up and he cannot see. There is concrete, probably, and metal, though he does not have the attention for them. He wants, very much, to be unconscious again. This is not allowed. 

He cannot hear himself scream. That is damage to his hearing, sometimes, illusions, others, something in his brain, others. When the relevant senses are not too overwhelmed otherwise, he can feel it. He screams.

 

     ----

 

He wakes up, and he is in bed, not alone. (Once, it crossed his mind to pretend he still slept. It does not cross his mind anymore). An arm tightens around him. “Morning,  _ darling _ .” It is, in some sense, a good morning. Torture outright does not emerge from the repertoire. Other activities, of course, carried on long enough, find themselves across that line. Still. It is to be appreciated. He is appreciative, properly. 

“Join me in the throne room today,” the master says, standing again, dressing with a gesture. He smiles. There are probably still some people left in the world who do not want to flinch, seeing it. Kneeling does not hurt very much, this moment. Kissing the master’s hand burns his lips; a touch heals them. “Don’t be late.”

He is not late.


End file.
